


Turtle

by GuiltyRed



Category: Crashers Knight and Ran, Weiss Kreuz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-25
Updated: 2010-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuiltyRed/pseuds/GuiltyRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The young explosives expert of the Crashers is more than married to his work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turtle

  
"Why do you wear that?"

Pawn looks up at his leader, follows Knight's gaze back to the harness he wears beneath his shirt. Warm against his skin, the leather bears a dozen and two charges, more than enough to kill him and anyone within about ten feet instantly. It's always with him on missions, and half the time he leaves it on when he sleeps. "You mean this? I have to. In case we're compromised."

"Wouldn't it be better to throw the bombs and let the bad guys die?" Knight unfolds his arms and steps into Pawn's room, letting the door slip shut behind him. "We're not paid to be martyrs, you know."

"I know, Knight." Even here he cannot bring himself to call his leader by his given name: however close they might be, Honjou Yuushi is not within Pawn's reach.

Uhyou Naru may as well not even exist anymore.

A gentle hand cups his cheek, drawing his gaze upward. Knight smiles down at him. "Take it off tonight. I'll keep watch."

Hands shaking, Pawn reaches for the buckles.

Knight stops him. "This really bothers you, doesn't it?"

Pawn's lower lip trembles. He hitches a breath and forces himself to look away at anything, at nothing – anywhere butKnight. "You wouldn't understand," he whispers. "Your weapon is just that, a weapon. It's not a shield, or a fortress, or the hand of Justice herself. Mine is a part of me, Knight. I know its moods better than my own, and I trust my life to its wisdom." His voice falters as Knight begins unfastening the harness for him, and he braces both hands on his leader's shoulders. "I feel naked without it. No, it's worse than naked: I feel _skinned_, like a turtle peeled from its shell."

"Turtles die if you do that," Knight murmurs, easing the smooth straps off of chafing skin. By the look of him, Pawn's been wearing his rig for days. He sets the harness carefully on its stand and makes certain it's secure before rummaging in Pawn's nightstand for his lotion.

Expression blank, Pawn sits heavily on the edge of his bed and allows Knight to smooth the healing aloe over badly-treated skin. The man's hands are warm and steady, just as capable at healing as they are at combat or at pleasure. Pawn begins to relax into the touch, his body remembering what kindness feels like and accepting it gratefully. He closes his eyes and sighs –

– but when he opens them again, he's staring at the harness: its lethal protection is half a room, half a world away from him, wrapped around a mannequin like some surrealist taxidermy.

Soon he will close his eyes and allow Knight to touch him and kiss him back into the realm of the living. But a part of him remains forever in the shadow of the judges of the dead: his harness calls to him like a shapeshifter's cape, and no mortal pleasure can eclipse the moment he puts it back on and becomes whole again.

  



End file.
